


Such Divine Tragedies

by lunicole



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Religion, Roman Catholicism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 20:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3623349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunicole/pseuds/lunicole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What he needs from this exchange isn’t poetry, but information about the war currently raging within the Empire, and about the schemes being set up in the corridors of the Holy City, and, maybe, maybe, the reassurance of the salute of his eternal soul.</p><p>He would laugh out loud, really, about the irony of it all, except he can’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Such Divine Tragedies

**Author's Note:**

> For the BBC Musketeers Kink Meme prompt:  
> "Aramis/Richelieu is a fervent catholic yet he lives in sin, loving another man. He surely felt bad about it once or twice. I'd want to read something where Aramis or Richelieu is struggling with his faith and his love affair."
> 
> I might as well put that basic catholic upbringing to use, eh? Let's talk about the purgatory.

The correspondence with the Pope is both a tedious and necessary evil, and Richelieu takes part to it with the same religious fervour he puts towards the affairs of the state. He tends to take care of it only in the middle of the night, under candle light, when insomnia gets the best of him. He doesn’t begrudgingly respect the current one as much as he feels he should, almost successful assassination attempts being something that usually earns a cardinal’s respect, even one who's not Italian.

The Pope is both brilliant and ridiculous. It's his greatest characteristics. His Latin sounds too delicate, too flowery, and Richelieu never really did care for pretty prose in ecclesiastic matters. What he needs from this exchange isn’t poetry, but information about the war currently raging within the Empire, and about the schemes being set up in the corridors of the Holy City, and, maybe, maybe, the reassurance of the salute of his eternal soul.

He would laugh out loud, really, about the irony of it all, except he can’t, his eyes going over the words with a slight frown. There are words about sin, and the eternal flames of hell, up to date with the most recent theological discourses of the thinkers of the Counter Reform.

Richelieu’s mind can’t escape that one recurring thought. It’s the fear that he knows. He knows about this.

“You’re overthinking things.”

It shouldn’t come to a surprise that Treville can read his mind from a frown. They’ve known each other for too long, or so it seems. Richelieu doesn’t let people know him for too long, especially men of unbent, self-righteous honour like Treville. Richelieu has their head chopped off, clean, with the strenght of steel, and a few signs of the cross to his conscience.

He looks up.

“Overthinking things is the reason why I am where I am, Captain.”

Treville doesn’t look as tired as he should, still lazily half-dressed, still the King's loyal old fox, whereas Richelieu feels like an old cat in an empty house, sometimes. Juggling with God and politics aged him more than any swords or canons ever could. He should have become a soldier.

“I know.”

There’s something unceremonious about their exchanges that never fails to make Richelieu’s skin crawl. He’s not sure if it’s exasperation or pleasure. Maybe it’s both. Either way, it’s bad news, has been for years already.

There are a few booted steps on the floor. The Cardinal's private chambers aren't as ornate as one might think, but the Louvre is the Louvre, and there's always the fleeting feeling that the dark tapestries and heavy paintings might hide some secret passageway to the catacombs of Paris or the King's private council. Thank God that Italian whore had left Richelieu take care of the decoration, years ago. Knowing every nook and cranny of the royal palace had turned to be one of the Cardinal’s greatest assets in holding France, and its rebellious noblemen, under the king’s rule.

"If you have more comments on my current state of mind or the way I deal with the matters of the state, I pray you to tell them immediately and be done with it." Richelieu says, and his voice is softer than he wishes it to be.

To these words, Treville only smile, very briefly, pointedly ignoring the very special brand of indirect orders the Cardinal is so good at giving. Soon enough, he’s standing next to the desk and peering over the paper with a curious look. He hums, lowly, almost inaudible, in the back of his throat as he does. It annoys Richelieu far more than it should.

“Is this from Rome?”

“It is.”

He doesn’t know why he’s letting him do this. Truth to be told, he’s pretty sure Treville could destroy him with what he knows, if he wanted to, although Richelieu himself knows he could destroy the old soldier twice before he’d even manage to get the king to listen to him. It’s a delicate balance they thread on, when it comes to war, politics, and whatever this is between the two of them.

“What does it say?”

Richelieu raises an eyebrow.

“You’ve neglected Latin studies, _Monsieur le capitaine des mousquetaires_?”

“ _Mea maxima culpa_ , Your Eminence.”

Treville bows his head lightly. His behaviour seems to oscillate between cheeky and dignified when they’re in private. It could almost be endearing, if it wasn’t so nerve-wracking. The old soldier still wants his answer.

“It’s mostly theological matters, hiding more temporal concerns,” Richelieu concedes. “His Holiness doesn’t like the fact that we’re siding with heretics, I’m afraid, although this is far from new when it comes to French foreign policy. His speech gets especially condemning when he gets upon the matter of natural law. I think it’s the troubles with his friend the scientist that are making him upset.”

Richelieu’s hand makes a non-descript movement in the air, elbow on the exotic wood of his desk. He’s tired. He shouldn’t be explaining the power games that go on within the Church to a man he’s bedded several times with no intention to stop. Still, it’s better than the truth.

“What do you plan on writing him back?”

Treville’s hand caresses the line of his neck as he speaks, looking at the papers upon the desk, oblivious to their meaning. It’s God’s way of testing him, he likes to joke to himself sometimes, with sharp blue eyes and fire that Richelieu wants to both feed and destroy at the same time. He doesn’t make a move to stop him.

“More theological arguments about salvation by works and the state of one’s soul, once it reaches purgatory. I believe the king’s soul shouldn’t have to wait too long there after the Second Coming, even if we keep our position against the House of Austria in Germany. Eternal damnation is strictly out of the question.”

Richelieu isn’t looking at Treville, but he’s not an idiot. Something’s changed about him as he feels his hand shying away from his collar to settle upon his shoulder. It’s because Richelieu only talks about Louis’ soul only to divert Treville’s attention from his own. It doesn’t work.

The next question Treville doesn’t need to ask is _What about your own soul, Armand?_. He stays mute.

Treville has grown surprisingly more diplomatic ever since their first meeting, before Louis’ taking of power, and before great aristocrats and princes of the House of Bourbon stopped trying to destroy each other and the future of France. Of course, he still hates the machinations, the power games, the destroying of lives that make Richelieu the great politician he is, but he’s nowhere near as prompt to get into a shouting match about it, one that never fails to end with teeth and bites and scratches and moans. They’ve become old.

Treville know this is about the guilt a Prime Minister at the head of a country on its way to fulfill its destiny as a world power cannot show. It’s another thing that separates them, the guilt, and the fears, Treville living in the present and tangible reality of the king and honor’s orders, whereas Richelieu spends his spying, scheming upon the always evasive future. It’s a good thing they don’t talk about religion. Richelieu is pretty sure the Captain might turn out to be as much of a heathen as his most devoted assassins.

A moment passes between them in silence. It’s broken by the sound of glass crashing against the floor. Water spills over stone. Treville doesn’t seem surprised.

“I always took you for a practical man.”

Richelieu only gives him a look.

“You were not mistaken. I’ll have this cleaned up in the morning.”

This time Treville takes the implicit order to leave. Richelieu does his best to make it sound like one, even though it’s more of plea, to please, please let him deal with these things by himself.

It’s easier to submit to God than to rule a country that is proving to be as uncooperative as France, or so Richelieu likes to think. Trying to do both at the same time, however, has proved problematic in the past. They are not Spaniards, or Austrians.

The truth is that the Cardinal is fully aware that his sins outweigh whatever good, for France and for the monarchy, he’s been doing ever since destiny put him in the path of greatness. Treville knows this, has known this since the beginning of their affair, or so Richelieu likes to tell himself, when he remembers Treville’s eyes and the reassurance that the cardinal was made of granite a few short months earlier.

The truth is that this is but a speck upon his already tainted record of lies and murders, upon his web in which he destroy lives for the greater good of France. For matters such as these, there’s always penance, prayer, and hopes that purgatory will be enough.

And, when he feels Treville’s lips caress forehead before his steps head back to the bedroom, he tells himself that a few thousand years of waiting for salvation after the end of the world might not be too bad, in proper company.


End file.
